Those Changing Winds
by grapewhite
Summary: DBate has returned! Sequel to The Bateman Barrage, will contain some SLASH and dark content.
1. Chapter 1

This is adult fiction.

Content-language,violence and SLASH.

Muses of-mostly Derrick,plenty of others.

Monday was M day.

He could be Mark Henry or Mason Ryan, huge and towering, large, intimidating.

He could be Santino Marella, backstage joker, comic relief, made even the roughest exterior break into a smile.

He decided to be Mick Foley that day.

Cut his hair very short.

Cut a chunk out of his earlobe too, stood bleeding with a smile, concern showing on his face, wrinkled forehead.

The most important question, would Wade like it?

He had to, he HAD to!

Derrick stood, smile fading.

He would never be beautiful enough to satisfy, to please his husband.

Sighed harshly, snipped more at his ear.

'You're not doing it right, stupid.'

That little hiss of a voice, always judging everyone else.

That was Phil.

'Let ME cut it, I'm expert at this.'

Derrick stood still, not a breath or a blink, allowed Punk to shear his new sheep.

Being Saved was SUCH a great thing.

They had simaliar yet different goals, each to rid the world of a certian not-Sheamus redhaired pest.

Then their paths split.

Derrick wanted to keep his beloved, Punk would prefer life without him.

That one difference.

He'd let Punk spout his demands, obey him to a point but nobody would ever harm HIS Wade.

No, that would be done with his own hands.

'There.' Last curl, crimson drenched, hit the floor. 'All done.'

'Thank you for the help.'

'Anytime. But remember you owe me now.'

Derrick swayed, a bit weak from blood loss.

He looked pretty now, enough to catch his husband's eye, keep him from straying.

wonder-frikking-ful.

Another sigh, bliss, contentment.

He turned back to thank Punk again.

Ask what favor Phil wanted.

Nothing there but hair.

Clumps of curls, blood stained scissors, and one still in package Mattel Elite Punk figure staring at him from its plastic enclosure.


	2. Chapter 2

Tuesday was T time.

He could be The Shield.

Except Derrick knew nothing about their pasts.

If he had, he'd be even more scarred.

And insane as well.

He didn't know Seth was Punk's half brother, both sharing the same useless drunk of a father.

He had no idea Seth had ran away as a teen from his abusive alcoholic mother.

And Seth had ripped Dean to shreds, turned him Were, Dean, the overweight nerd high school loser, who'd never dated or got a kiss from a girl.

Nor did Derrick know those two had found homeless poverty stricken Roman, selling anything he could to survive, and Changed him too.

Derrick touched the white lines of scars on his arms, razor cut anchor symbols, perfect to please his wonderful husband.

Derrick admired the Shield, anyone that was anti-red haired pest was okay by him.

And they hadn't hurt Wade, good for them.

Because if they ever did...

Derrick gripped the bit of broken glass so hard it stabbed into his hand.

He didn't flinch or wince.

Smiled instead.

Wade didn't like dogs.

Derrick decided it was time for the Gift, to prove his love and devotion.

Lucky for him he'd hidden it deep inside his American flag print duffel,kept zipped up where nosy enemies could not peek into.

The smell was being to foul.

He spritzed it damp, grinned and hummed a tune,happy and proud.

Checked many times for complete privacy.

Deposited the Gift grandly at the door of the 'villian's' locker room area.

This was the best showing of love he'd thought of in awhile.

He hid back in a crowd, could be the Shield another day,not now though.

Waited happily, ready to see his dear perfect husband's reaction,how happy he'd be!

Waited and danced, wiggling, before the first shocked screams came from the other wrestlers at the sight of the dog's rotting corpse.

The dog Derrick had beaten, kicked and stomped, days before.

The Gift for his flawless King of a husband.

His Wade.


	3. Chapter 3

Wednesday was husband day.

Easy to be him.

Being perfect wasn't simplicity, breaking his nose was.

Derrick lacked a bull, used only the hammer instead.

Another scar, another trail of blood leaking down his face.

another smile.

But he wouldn't be his true love forever, had no reason or interest in being...ugh...intimate with the Enemy.

He felt ashamed he'd been fooled so easily, Cena wasn't the enemy at all, it was that nasty, useless...

Derrick hid behind the wall seperation and glared.

Enemy and his sidekicks.

The skirt wearing one that talked with a Sheamus clone accent, the Canadian Indian.

The enemy, his Enemy, a medium sized mass of freckles and bouncing energy and terrible noise.

Derrick made a sound, rumble of thunder before a storm.

He knew what this Enemy was.

A vampire.

Because he'd SEEN them together, HIS husband with this waste, spied on their backstage grope fests, noticed the tiny sharp teeth, teeth of bats, they both had.

Derrick had his carved out wooden stake ready, ready for weeks, sharp pointed, ready for the time to take a life.

To END one.

But for now, he was Wade.

No damage yet.

Now he'd watch, in the shadows, watch and observe, check for weaknesses.

He held the stake.

Jabbed it into his leg.

Laughed a bit.

No pain at all.

He was Perfection.

He was royalty.

He was his beloved husband.

It was mid week and Derrick was Wade.

He was a vampire and he'd draw first blood.


	4. Chapter 4

Thursday, another T day.

Tensai he'd be, for a short time, carving into his face not Asian symbols, but roses, sliced skin with thorns.

T was also for terror, a sweaty nightmare of a Sesame Street letter.

The Worst Thing, the horror he relived, remembered, mentally ran from each hour,each day.

Wedding.

Not HIS,not that which should be, not him rightfully becoming a Barrett, no,that he'd been robbed of.

Nasty zombie hunter thief.

Disgusting and disgraceful, his place stolen by a terrible nuisance dog lover.

Lips curled back,showing the envy, eyes dark as the fury that raged inside.

Derrick punctured his lips with the last thorn, no grin appeared.

Wedding.

He loathed it.

He'd spied on them, himself and Punk, hidden away, now reliving the agony,torment, each smile,every kiss, the dance of one nearly joined couple.

The ring exchange and vows.

Derrick spat a curse or two, driving another thorn in,stake in his broken heart.

Vulgar words didn't help the pain.

Physical pain put upon his own body didn't either.

The physical pain of others would.

Another thorn.

A brief gentle smile, worn with the accessory of mad eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

Friday, an F day.

Fight or flight or...

He'd fight, not run and definitely object to the other F unless it was he receiving it.

However his sick curiousity compelled him to observe the F, hiding, of course.

He admired Brock, not the guy himself with his lack of neck and decent speaking abilities but the Fierceness, another great F.

Derrick could and did watch that beatdown, savage, brutal, hundreds of times, thief getting tossed harshly into the barricade over and over.

Too bad Brock hadn't killed the little twit.

It was his smile, reason to laugh, glorious, made for great material to get off over.

Wet gooey fingers and a cruel smile.

Now in secret, spy games, he watched THEM, his true love and that pest, groping and grunting, using each other as sustanance.

He stared at the pressing lips, glowered at the smiles, dug nails into his palms at the laughing.

the bodies intwined became his bleak grey cloud sky, rain in a drizzle, no sun at their lovemaking, love that should've been his.

He watched them, on and on, sighing, moaning, touching and tasting each part of the other, hair, face and body.

Body.

He cringed, dying inside.

Fight.

Derrick racked his brain, had nothing, found it best to let others do the dirty work.

Too bad Brock hadn't killed the thing in his way, keeping him from his husband.

What a letdown.

F.

A failure.

He turned away, tears forming and hands sore from beating off, not wanting to watch anymore, even though the glimpses of his beloved's genitals were compelling.

F.

Fractured.

Broken.

Breaking.

Breakup.

Derrick smiled, licked his fluids away.

That was it, he'd split them, tear HIM in two, divorced.

F.

Fun.


	6. Chapter 6

S was sorrow from failure.

The other S, separation, hadn't worked. Yes, they'd argued but S-stab in the gut- always apologized with laughter and smiles, reconsiled, remained a couple.

A happily married couple, his worst nightmare.

Another S yet, second place.

He'd lost and it tore at him much like the papercuts he agonized through.

Sickness, deep down, made him vomit and cry, the love they shared, HIS beloved and that brat.

Derrick felt thoughts crawling in his mind, tiny brain maggots, wiggling, not understanding at all why his husband left him in second place when he'd obviously worked so hard for the grand prize.

S was senses.

Touch, he had himself and his hands.

Taste was the blood in his mouth.

Sight, the observation backstage, each movement, the way the skin looked, inked beautifully.

Sound, hearing his voice, made the world keep turning.

Smell was the bits and pieces Derrick kept in his collection these last few months, a loose bit of hair, a stolen sweat damp tee.

Dried up petals from an abandoned rose, thrown away, crushed, much like Derrick had been.

Poor flower, they were both sad.

These Ses harmed him, more than the bruises, the cuts, the burns he'd placed upon his flesh.

Scarification.

Separation had failed.

Another S he needed now.

Something new to try.

Sacrifice.

Take a life as a gift for a God.

A great S appeared to Derrick.

Smile.


	7. Chapter 7

No day of rest but there was sun, thin lines of it covered over with thick curtains.

This near noon hour they slept, unaware of who gazed down over them.

Derrick held the stake, counting, bag at his feet, torn shopping tote, filled with many fun toys.

He brushed his hand over his husband's perfect face, kept the other gripped around wood, sometimes his own.

Left the weapon behind long enough to use both hands, firm grip, soft feathers of fingers.

Both hands, yes. His beloved was more than merely tall in his large size.

Derrick ran his lips over this beautiful skin, flicked his eyelashes against it.

Sighed heavily, prepared for war once more.

Wooden, gripped, a splinter in his palm.

Stood over the Enemy.

Considered in one swift second to cut off all the brat's hair.

THAT would make his beloved have second thoughts about this sham of a relationship.

Up the stake went.

And down.

Also himself, blinking, bewildered.

Two wolves, one white with eyes like the sky, brilliant blue, the other night black, both growling.

How had they...?

How HAD...?

Great, he was going insane.

He never won.

Kept losing.

THEIR fault, those wolves and that thief, but never never ever his love's fault, no, not someone who was a God.

In prison now, padded walls, barred up door, uncomfortable itchy strait jacket.

The Enemy's fault he was here and not with his dear wonderful husband.

Brat had ran his mouth along with his little groupie buddies, ran to Hunter and ratted him out.

They'd took Derrick away from his 'special toys', worse yet from his husband, and locked him in this terrible place.

S, another.

S-cape.

His eyelid twitched.

Blood streaming into his hands.

S.

Salvation.

Savior.

Punk breaking him out, setting him free.

Derrick crept through the shadows, three around him, in a group, one leader.

Punk there, Shield there, even Heyman, even Brock.

There to help him return into his beloved's big warm loving arms, where he belonged.

And to destroy that Enemy who'd robbed him of Real Love.

Saved.


End file.
